


Blank Slate

by Nightfawkes



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Casey needs a hug, Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:10:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6580552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightfawkes/pseuds/Nightfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And just like that, his barren apartment living room is suddenly chock-full of Bartowski. Who has apparently brought Awesome. And a couch. </p>
<p>Tag to episode S3x10</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blank Slate

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided to bring all of my old fic under one roof. Instead of torturing myself with all the of the things I would likely now feel I could have done better, I have decided not to clean these stories up, and am posting them as-is. If you see anything wrong/problematic, or if I missed any tags, please let me know.

If it wasn’t a dead sprint, it was damn close, and Chuck thanked the hundred little gods that he hadn’t fully shut his front door as he palm-slapped it open on the run and bolted through.   
  
“ _Morgan_ ” he wheezed, as he skidded to a stop by the end of the couch. Bent double, hands braced on his knees, he struggled to draw a breath. He shouldn’t be winded. He didn’t know why he was, really, except that this had just been one of Those Days, and it was all a little much right now. He pounded himself on the chest, coughed, and then forced his spine upright.   
  
“MORGAN!” This time his voice rang out, ricocheting through the apartment, and summoning his best friend on the double. His best friend who came pattering into the front room in a half-crouch, a can of Milbarge’s mace tucked close to his side, Mystery Crisper championship headband tied haphazardly around his head á la Rambo. A tiny, furry Rambo.   
  
“Chuck? What is it best buddy? I’m ready. I’m ready for anything. Do we have a mission? We do, don’t we? Let’s _do_ this!” And with that proceeded to crouch-step straight towards the open front door without even pausing to draw breath.  
  
“Morgan,” Chuck reached out to snag Morgan’s elbow as he passed. “MorganMorganMorgan, hold up there buddy. Just hang on a second.” Instance compliance. The crouch straightened, mace disappeared in a pocket, guileless blue eyes opened wide and gazed up into his.   
  
“Sure, Chuck, sure. You’re the spy expert. What’s the sit-rep, brother? Do you like that? Sit-rep. I googled it earlier. It’s military speak for situation report. The haps, you know? The low down. I wonder if Casey would be cool if I said that to him. He would, wouldn’t he? He’s a cool kinda guy.”  
  
Chuck grinned. Seriously, he had the best friend on the face of the planet. Hands down. “Actually, buddy, it’s Casey I need to talk to you about. He needs our help.”  
  
“What?? _Yes._ Of course. Anything!” Morgan started to pace. “Does this have anything to do with that thing earlier? Oh god, Casey’s been caught up in some dangerous spycapade, hasn’t he?”  
  
Chuck crossed his arms over his chest and leaned one hip easily on the back of the couch. “Spycapade?”  
  
“Spycapade’s no good? I kinda liked that one. Spy-a-thon, then. Or spyapalooza.”  
  
“ _Morgan_.”  
  
Morgan stopped dead mid-pace and spun to face him. “Right, of course. Casey. Well whatever it is, Chuck, man, you know I’m in.”   
  
Chuck clapped Morgan on the shoulder. “I know you are. Come on, sit down. I gotta tell you some stuff about Casey. And then we have a mission.”  
  
~~  
  
Sunset over Echo Park is quite beautiful tonight. They’ve had enough rain lately that LA’s near-omnipresent smog layer is banished for the time, and the sky is dotted with fluffy wisps of clouds. The sunset bathes the courtyard in a soft glow, casting a peach sheen to the warm tones of the fountain and paving bricks outside. It has been a long while since he’s taken the time to notice a sunset. Guess maybe he’ll have plenty of opportunities now.  
  
John Casey, née Alex Coburn, carefully angles his bonsai on the shelf by the window. There. Corners matching, exactly centered. It will do. Fucking CIA bastards tore his last one up by the roots. The roots! No respect in this world.   
  
Not that he can blame them, really. He’s done what he should never have done. What he’d had no choice _but_ to do, and this was the inevitable result of that. Cast off. Thrown out. Adrift in a world he is without a place in, for the first time in the entirety of his waking memory. And what does he have to show for it? No photos on the walls, no racks of Kevlar vests, no guns. Oh god, _no guns_. A bonsai, a world map, and a single battered armchair are all he has to his name. And it isn’t even his name. His real name belongs to someone else now. A beautiful brunette girl. Alex.  
  
Casey rubs his hand over his face, and ignores the heat twisting in his chest. Big picture, think big picture. That is what he has always been about, after all. Kathleen is safe. His… his _daughter_ is safe. Keller can never come after them again, and that is worth the price. Worth any price.   
  
It has to be.   
  
Casey turns from the window and levels a desultory stare at the fridge. He wonders if it is even worth opening to see what kind of a mess has been left behind in there. He’d be willing to bet even his frozen veggies have all been sliced open in search of that stupid goddamn pill. Half an inch of blue and white has destroyed his entire life’s work. Whatever. He isn’t all that hungry anyway.   
  
He crosses the floor to his chair, and sits. Stares at the stack of books Chuck had placed to try and negate the devastation of his home. Remembers the feel of his gun in his hands, pressing snug to Chuck’s chest as the younger man crowded him fearlessly. Those brown eyes staring up with nothing but patience, and faith. _‘What I don’t understand, is why…’_ Unflagging, determined to give Casey the chance to prove he was who he pretended to be.  
  
What will he do, now, without having Chuck Bartowski defining his life? No more surveillance. No more sparring. No more late nights in the van, imparting advice couched as bullying. Chuck is the spy now, and he is… What? Not an agent. Not a Marine. Certainly not a box-pusher at a dead end job, even though that’s what he will be stuck doing until he sorts himself out.   
  
He is just a blank slate. The cosmic pause button has been pressed on the story of his life, and now he hangs, suspended in his bubble of time and space, waiting for a direction. Waiting for purpose to make sense of him. Waiting to live again.   
  
Jesus. How do people _do_ this?   
  
A brisk knock at the door has Casey instantly, unthinkingly grateful for the distraction. He is halfway out of his chair when the door swings abruptly open, and he is presented with the sight of the backside of Chuck, and a whole lot of upholstery. What the…  
  
“A little to the left… That’s good Devon. Ellie, you just stay back here by me, and let Chuck and Awesome do the heavy lifting. No, no, angle it to the… yeah… no… Yes! Nicely done, Devon.”  
  
And just like that, his barren apartment living room is suddenly chock-full of Bartowski. Who has apparently brought Awesome. And a couch.   
  
Morgan and Ellie poke their heads in at the doorway.   
  
“Hi, John!” Ellie calls out. “Chuck told me about you being robbed, you poor soul. So surprising, in this neighborhood, you know?”  
  
Casey blinks, bemused, as Chuck and Devon speak to each other in undertones and grunts, apparently quite determined to settle a large couch in his living room. “Uh… yeah. Thieves, huh? No good ever comes of that.”  
  
Chuck gives him a look, and is back out the door again in a heartbeat. Devon walks over and claps him on the shoulder. “Seriously, dude. People who steal? Not awesome. So we uh... had this extra couch. Just… laying around. And stuff. Thought we’d put it to good use and let our buddy John borrow it for a while.”  
  
Ellie and Morgan, sotto voce at the doorway. “What? Who has an extra couch laying around? That doesn’t even make sense.”  
  
“Yeah. He really is a terrible liar. Wonderful quality in a husband, Morgan. Remember that.”  
  
Chuck reappears in the doorway, wheeling along a trolley piled high with electronics, a single power cord dangling forlornly over the edge and threatening to scrape on every possible nearby surface. Ellie follows him in, arms piled high with linen and dishes. Morgan scootches along behind her, attempting to muscle a coffee table the wrong way through the door.   
  
Casey realizes he’s sitting on his chair, clutching his bonsai clippers for dear life, and baffled as to just how Clan Bartowski has suddenly infiltrated his living room. Ellie is plumping pillows and placing them on the couch as Devon makes minute adjustments, angling the piece just so, until it directly faces Chuck. Chuck, who is on a stepladder – when the hell did a ladder get here? – and hanging a flatscreen TV on the recently vacated wall mount.   
  
Morgan finally manages to place the low table to his satisfaction in front of the couch, and straightens up, brushing his hands off briskly.  
  
“Ta-da! Hey, Chuck, Bamboo Dragon guy should be here any minute now.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” comes Chuck’s muffled voice from where he’s rerouting a cable behind the TV. “Almost… got it… There!”  
  
Ellie bustles past Casey, smiling at Devon as they head for the door. “There are towels and sheets in the bathroom. I don’t know who in their right mind would steal those - so creepy! - but just in case.” She abruptly turns back, and brushes a soft kiss over his cheek. Casey holds very, very still. Then Ellie and Awesome are turning matching,dazzling smiles on him, before disappearing into the dusk  
  
He wonders if this is what he was missing all these years without a family.  
  
Chuck seems to be satisfied, now, and is rummaging through the rest of the box, muttering something about unpacking the rest of it later. Morgan is bouncing lightly on his toes next to him.   
  
“Come on, John. Bring your badassness and just wander over this way. Charles and I are going to show you what it means to have a night off. And just as soon as he finds where he hid the controller, I am going to trounce you in the world’s most classic hand-eye coordination game. Duck Hunt! I refuse to play with Chuck anymore. He cheats.”  
  
Duck Hunt. _Duck Hunt_?   
  
He thinks of Kathleen, so beautiful still, even after all these years. A stranger to him. ‘ _Do I know you?_ ’ He thinks of dark, trusting eyes, and a voice that wraps around and echoes in his soul. ‘ _I know who you are_.’   
  
Chuck pulls the gun-shaped controller from the box, and Morgan crows with triumph before throwing himself into a sprawl on the couch. Casey misses his SIG. Wonders what it will take to talk Walker into sneaking it back to him. He’s betting not much. Girl’s a soft touch, really.  
  
Casey stands, crosses the floor, holds his hand out for the controller, and makes room for himself on the couch. “Shove over, Grimes. I’m about to kick your ass eight ways from Sunday.”  
  
“Them’s fightin’ words, my man. But you know not the ways required to defeat… The master of the hunt!” Morgan’s faux-Asian accent is accompanied by several faux karate-chops, and Casey flexes his fingers around the almost-familiar feel of the controller in his hand.   
  
Chuck grins at Casey as he heads out the door to intercept their take-out delivery boy. Casey grins back, and turns his gaze to the screen.  
  
He thinks this is the first time he’s smiled like this in longer than he can bear to remember. And he thinks, God willing, it won’t be the last.


End file.
